Bonbright’s father leaned forward icily.  “Son,” he said, coldly, “you haven’t been picking up any queer notions in college?”

“Queer notions?”

“Socialistic, anarchistic notions.  That sort of thing.”

“I don’t believe,” said Bonbright, with utter honesty, “that I ever gave the workingman a thought till to-day. ...  That’s why it hit me so hard, probably.”

“It hit you, eh?” said Lightener.  He lifted his hand abruptly to motion to silence Mr. Foote, who seemed about to interrupt.  “Leave the boy alone, Foote. ...  This is interesting.  Never saw just this thing happen before. ...  It hit you hard, eh?”

“It was the realization of the power of large employers of labor—­ like father and yourself, sir.”

“Was that all?”

“At first. ...  Then there was a fellow on a barrel making a speech about us. ...  I listened, and found out the workingmen realize that we are sort of czars or some such thing—­and resent it.  I supposed things were different.  This Dulac was sent here to organize our men into a union—­just why I didn’t understand, but he promised to explain it to me.”

“What?” demanded Bonbright Foote VI, approaching nearer than his wife had ever seen him to losing his poise.

“You talked to him?” asked Hilda, leaning forward in her interest.

“I was introduced to him; I wanted to know. ...  He was a handsome fellow.  Not a gentleman, of course—­”

“Oh!” Lightener pounced on that expression.  “Not a gentleman, eh? ...  Expect to find the Harvard manner in a man preaching riot from a potato barrel? ...  Well, well, what did he say?  How did he affect you?”

“He seemed to think the men resented our power over them.  Just how correctly he stated their feeling I don’t know, of course.  They cheered his speech, however. ...  He said father had the power to buy mother a diamond necklace to-morrow, and cut their wages to pay for it—­and they couldn’t help themselves.”

“Well—­could they?”

“I don’t know.  I didn’t understand it all, but it didn’t seem right that those men should feel that way toward us.  I want to talk to father about it—­have him explain it to me.”

Lightener chuckled and turned to Mr. Foote.  “I don’t suppose you appreciate the humor of that, Foote, the way I do.  He’s coming to you for an unbiased explanation of why your employees—­feel that way. ...  Young fellow,” he turned to Bonbright again—­“I could come closer to doing it than your father—­because I was one of them once.  I used to come home with grease on my hands and a smudge on my nose, smelling of sweat.”  Mrs. Foote repressed a shudder and lowered her eyes.  “But I couldn’t be fair about it.  Your father has no more chance of explaining the thing to you—­than my wife has of explaining the theory of an internal-combustion engine. ...  We employers can’t do it.  We’re on the other side.  We can’t see anything but our own side of it.”